


Practice

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A teaching moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practice

“Take a sip and tell me what you think of it,” she asks, her voice light but clearly well practiced. There’s a breeziness, a sense of familiarity to her words and actions that Petyr has long since become comfortable with, which only means that he notices quickly whenever something is amiss, and the stilted nature of her tone gives him pause. The light of the dinning hall is dim—with candles having become a bit of a luxury in the hard winter, the only light they could now afford came from the massive fire whose main function was warmth—but he can clearly see Sansa’s eyes, shinning whenever she sneaks a glance in his direction. She’s alert and cautious, just as he taught her to always be, but it all seems a bit too heightened tonight. Something’s just slightly off in the way she looks at him; something is clearly amiss. 

Petyr feels the corners of his mouth turn up, just as a shock runs through his veins. It’s a strange, paradoxical, reaction to have, but he never feels more alive in moments like this. 

He settles down into his chair and motions her forward. She doesn’t hesitate, and he watches carefully to ensure that her head remains high. She doesn’t falter on that account either. _Yes, good._

She’s dressed rather too elegantly—another clue to her motive for tonight, possibly, if he did not like to spoil her and if she had not done away with most of her bastard gowns after her blissfully short marriage—and he takes just a second to admire her. It’s a weakness, he knows, just as he knows she’s taking full advantage of that, but it still doesn’t make the sight of her in a pale blue gown, silver net in her hair, any less enticing. 

Sansa studies him with clear eyes and, after a few well-measured seconds, offers him one slim hand. He threads his fingers through hers, but she doesn’t let him pull her down into his lap. It’s a small bit of control, but it is control nonetheless; she looks down on him from high.

“Drink with me,” he asks. He breaks his hold to run the back of his fingers along her bare arm, noting with pleasure the way her skin pricks in response. Even better, her face betrays this only slightly—a small break in her composure, not enough for anyone but himself to notice. He stores that moment in his mind. 

“Of course,” she says, smiling still. She breaks their contact, moves to pour herself a drink from the same jug. 

_It’s in the glass,_ he thinks, looking down at the still-untouched goblet in his hand. Again, he’s torn between multiple emotions. Pride that he figured it out, of course, but also a desire to fix her mistakes—she’s better than this, _they_ are better than this, but she’s still a novice in this game, truth be told. Fear only creeps in underneath those two; what does he have to fear? He’s figured it out, this time at least, and he has to think that with her actions so conspicuous she wants him to know, somehow. Wants his input. 

She turns, raises her goblet in toast. Petyr lets his fall to the floor. It clatters across the stones, staining them blood red, but he only notices this out of the corner of his eye. He’s watching her, noting the way her face tightens, then relaxes—relief? 

“You can’t expect it to be that easy, can you?” As he says these words he stands and crosses the room, again closing the distance between them until she’s within arm’s reach. 

“What are you talking about?” Her voice trembles a bit, and if he didn’t know any better he might think he was mistaken all along. 

“You must ensure there is no cause for concern. Nothing unusual in your manner, in your dress. I was on edge the second you walked in the room, and I suspected all as a result.” He runs his thumb over her wrist, feeling her calming pulse. “Don’t assume all your targets are fools. They might surprise you.”

Sansa bites her lip and he can tell she’s unsure what to say, how to play this off, but it’s clear that she’s listening. He smiles at her and kisses her lightly, just the softest brush of lips, savoring her soft sigh at the end. That expression of want is, to him, the sweetest thing imaginable. 

“Shall I try this again, sometime?” she asks, her voice low but her words fast, as if she needs to get them out quick. But still, to her credit, her eyes never leave his. 

He kisses her again, a bit harder this time, and then pulls her close to speak in her ear. “Of course. Practice all you learn, sweetling.” Between them, her goblet clatters to the floor, and he’s somewhat pleased to note that the wine stains the stones but manages to avoid the two of them. It’s fitting, really.


End file.
